


Outside

by Rhodrangea



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: (Outlast) Post-Asylum, Agoraphobia, Anal Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Eddie might bottom ;), Gay Sex, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe fluff, Minor Original Character(s), Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Therapy, and the kids, eddie is alusive af, if I'm generous, lisa is gone??, this is just a bit fucked up, where tf is Lisa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 00:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhodrangea/pseuds/Rhodrangea
Summary: It's only been two months since Waylon escaped from Mount Massive, and the environmental change has effected him more than he anticipated. Plagued with the paranoia of a certain man tracking him down and finding him, he is confined to his home, empty of his family, and filled with his irrational fears and endless harrowing nightmares. He inherently depends on Miles to take care of him and to make sure he holds onto whatever rationaility that is still intact.After being convinced by Miles to see a therapist from home, the therapy forces Waylon to face his past as he continues to struggle with the idea of the outside world, and what Eddie Gluskin means to him during his recovery. While he was never optimistic of the therapy to begin with, things take a sharp descent, and Waylon knows that things will get worse before they get better. If they get better at all.





	1. On the Inside

Waylon lived like some undiscovered cavern creature. A blind salamander, hiding underneath rocks in the dark and navigating through the inky black depths with wandering, unseeing eyes. All of the blinds were closed, every window was sealed, every door was locked. If there were any lights on at all, it'd be from the lamps scattered about the house, or from the bathroom, cool light leaking out into the hallway of the endless night of Waylon's home. Or the TV early in the a.m., the news, stark pictures illuminating the living room. Or Waylon's phone lighting up his sunken eyes and cheeks, texting to Miles, _'Could you pick up light bulbs for me?'_ , or the infamous, _'I think there's someone in the house'_. Waylon wasn't verbal. He didn't call anymore, didn't really talk anymore. He was content that way. Alone in his home. Safe. Quiet, with the only heartbeat being his. 

It was another one of those days. Then again, every day was _'one of those days'_.

A sufferer of waking nightmares, Waylon was subjected to staring into the darkness, fearful of the horrors he couldn't see, and terrorized by the ones he could hear. There were moments when he had thought about shoving something long and sharp into ito his ears, puncturing his eardrums. That way he wouldn't have to see what the light brought to him nor hear what the silence wanted to say to him. And as he sat up in bed, breath short and strained, his eyes swimming in the dark, he thought about it again. If he did that to himself, then surely Miles would step in, because eventually, he would find out, and use the moment to force him to go outside. To a hospital. Maybe the police. It didn't matter. It wasn't his house, either way.

The gentle whispers of his delusions grew erratic as he turned towards where he knew the covered window was. 

Outside.

The world beyond his bubble. An ocean he used to understand how to navigate, now nothing but uncharted land in his eyes. Someplace vast and filled with unseen dangers. Someplace unknown, the ether. Someplace that wasn't meant for someone like him to explore.

_Bzzt, bzzt._

Waylon's phone lit up his peripherals. His pale hand trembled as it reached for the device. Miles had texted to him, 

**'i'm outside'**

Waylon bristled. He could hear the word in Miles' voice in his head. Every syllable, with the sound of people talking and cars rolling by in the distance. More messages came in.

**'fuck, sorry'**  
**'sorry'**  
**'i'm at your door'**  
**'ignore what i said before'**  
**'i have all your favorites'**  
**'and more light bulbs :)'**

Waylon let out a deep breath that he'd been holding in. The promise of goodies always led him to the front door after Miles' slip ups. He knew his house, every turn, where every creak in the floorboards were, which enabled him to walk around in the darkness. No fumble or trip, straight to the front door, where the tiniest amount of light peeked in through the peephole. Like an eye, burning a hole into Waylon's face. He stared back. It seemed to wink. But as he watched the white eye, he noticed that, there was actually a shadow moving behind it. As he's done numorous times before, he carefully crept up to the door, pressed his body against it, ear hovering centimeters away.

"Miles...?" His voice was broken and cracked, but carried through to the other side.

"Hey," A gentler, smoother voice came back. "It's me, Way. Open up?" Waylon paused and strained to hear if the shuffling only belonged to Miles.

"...are you alone?"

"I always am, Way." His tone didn't break patience. The stagnancy stretched, Miles waiting for the moment Waylon determined it was safe. He unlocked all five locks, screwed his eyes shut and opened the door. His face was turned away so that not even the natural light could seep through his eyelids. Miles quickly slipped in and closed the door. The lock clicked. "Hey, dude. How do you feel? It's dark in here..." 

"I'm... okay. Here," Waylon grasped Miles' upper arm and led him into the kitchen, where he turned on the light over the sink.

"Ah! There he is." They faced eachother, Waylon's ghastly appearance, and Miles' life-filled one. His smile was sad, but genuine, the sink's soft light filling up half the kitchen and his face. He even _smelled_ like outside. 

"Hey, I... Thanks for the stuff." Waylon's gaze drifted down to the bags in Miles' hands that he sat on the island counter. 

"Shush. You're my best friend, Waylon. Don't thank me. I _want_ to help you." It was unsaid, but still hung in the air, the fact that without Miles, Waylon would be as good as dead. He watched him pull out food and snacks, and _light bulbs_. The thing he had one of the most vehement love/hate relationship with. That and... _and..._

Waylon saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. Green dots, flashing in the darkness of the living room. He slapped his hands to eyes with a ragged breath.

"Way?" He listened to Miles' footsteps come towards him. His soft hands gripped his wrists.

"There's someone else in here..." How could they have gotten in? He listened and listened, and Miles was alone...

"What are you—"

"I'm turning off the light."

"Waylon." He pulled his hands away and strode over to the sink light and shut it off. There it was. The comfort. Like the darkness was warm, and hugged him constantly, yet it brought whispers with it, brushing against his ears. Then he wanted to do it again. Jab something long and sharp, right into his eardrums. 

"I'm sorry, Miles. But thank you for coming. I owe you so much." He turned back, hands out to hold his friend's shoulders. Footsteps creaked from the living room. Waylon's heart picked up, his breath becoming shallow. "I... I don't want you to get hurt..." He started to push, and Miles stumbled. 

"Waylon, hey! What are you doing, man?" Waylon didn't stop, pushing him all the way back to the front door. He yanked open the door with his shut eyes and shoved Miles out before slamming the door and locking it again. "Waylon? Listen, there's nobody in there. It's just your head fucking with you. Remember?"

"Remember _what?_ " Waylon spat, his body heating up as his lip curled. Subconciously, he remembered. Perfectly. 

"Please, Waylon." Miles' muffled voice wavered. "Let me help you. And I mean help _you_. You need to—"

" _I'm fine._ " He scratched his nails against the wood of the door. "It's safe in here. I just... I just need to.... need to figure out how to get him out of here..." He struggled, trying to rationalize his own behavior.

"For fuck's sake, listen to yourself, Waylon!" His previous, patient approach dissolved. "You're torturing yourself in there!"

"Oh no, Miles. This is nothing like torture. _Nothing._ " In that moment he could feel hands on his hips and legs, lips to his ear, the familiar word forming against his skin, but no sound coming out. He hated that fucking word. "Go away, Miles." His voice shook. "Please." The side that would usually feel bad, couldn't. He was too wrapped up in his apparitions that he couldn't even see that he was pushing away the one person that was literally his life support. Maybe he didn't care, if Miles one day decided he wasn't going to fight for him anymore, and let him waste away. Silence wedged itself between them. He could feel the tension squeezing him till his lungs felt like they'd give out.

"Okay, Waylon." His footsteps echoed from the front porch and down the steps, then where Waylon couldn't hear them anymore. He stood there as his body cooled off, leaving him glued to the door like hardened candle wax. He needed to go back to bed. After prying himself away from the door, he went back into the kitchen to put everything away. Then he realized... Miles had bought something else for him. The light came on briefly for him to see what it was. Pens, notebook, and a sketchbook. His throat closed up. When was the last time he'd written anything... The days bled together, he had no use to keep a diary, and didn't care to keep the lights on long enough to write, or even draw. But the sentiment was... it made Waylon's eyes burn. He didn't cry much anymore, coupled with the sink light. He switched it off, sniffling softly. He was _such a dick_. Quickly, he ran to his bedroom and pull out his cellphone. His thumbs hovered over the screen.

 _ **'I'm sorry, Miles'**_ Waylon bit hard into his lower lip to stop himself from crying any further. He waited...  
_**'Thank you for the gifts. I'm sorry.'**_

Nothing. Waylon knew he deserved it.

The nothing. And more nothing. And more nothing. And more nothing. Until he was staring back at the glowing green eyes in his hallway again.


	2. Open

Two glowing green dots. Still, staring through the dark. Two turned to four. Four turned to eight. Eight turned to sixteen. Waylon couldn't move, he couldn't scream. But he could feel his heartbeat like it was desperately trying to escape his ribcage. The green eyes all came together, congealed, and grew and grew until it was a beam of light, shining down on Waylon, cutting through the black. A beacon. His chest ached. It wanted something to find him. A loud, warbled noise filled his ears, like grating steel over radio interference. Something organic tried to form through the sound. Something like words. Waylon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see the green light bleeding through his eyelids. The sound kept trying to speak to him until it quieted into white noise. And then he opened his eyes. Darkness. Chills rushed into his body and he jolted upwards. His hands reached out, feeling for his blanket. Instead, his fingertips brushed against porcelain. He laid his hand flat against it, thumb rubbing against the surface with dull squeaks.

He was... Was he in the bathtub? 

Waylon sat up and slid his hand upwards to the edge of the bathtub. The still air hung heavy, outside the bathroom was quiet. 

"How did I get in here...?" He whispered to himself, breath shaky. When nothing came back, he carefully raised one leg over the side and then the other until his feet touched the floor. His body trembled with cold, but his skin was hot and his warm breath stung his freezing lips. 

Someone was there. 

Waylon poked his head out of the door as if he could see. He strained to listen to the silence. A gust of warmth brushed against the back of his neck. Lips to his ear, that _fucking word._ He bolted towards his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. His body locked with tension as he breathed rapidly. Sweat gathered in his palms and his forehead. 

No.

_No, no, no._

He didn't want it. He didn't want it. He didn't want _him_ , he didn't...

_He did._

Fear sunk her claws deeper into Waylon's heart until his throat closed up and his eyes burned with threatening tears. He clamped his hand around his mouth and sunk to the floor. This wasn't real... It couldn't be. It _couldn't._ Waylon's face felt like he'd shoved it into a boiling pot of water. The cold dread fell away from him, and was replaced with heat. 

A light illuminated his pillow. 

_Brrr... brrr..._

Waylon didn't move. He stared at his cellphone until it stopped vibrating and shut his eyes once he was fully in the dark again. 

_Brrr... brrr..._ The cellphone came to life again. The vibrations seemed to get more and more violent the longer he ignored it. Teeth clenched, he scrambled forward and clasped the cellphone in his sweaty hands. When he answered, he almost choked. 

"Miles... Why are you calling me?" His voice was grainy and cracked. 

"Way, there you are. I know you don't like talking over the phone but I have something I need to tell you." Something shuffled from outside of Waylon's closed door. 

"O-okay... What is it?" Miles took a deep breath from the other end, the sound of him cracking his knuckles barely recieving through the phone. 

"I called a therapist for you, Way." It was like lightning struck him. _Therapist?_ "Look, I know you're gonna be pissed, but I just... I just can't keep doing this. I can't sit back and watch you waste away when I know I can help." Waylon swallowed thickly.

"Do I... Do I have to- to go...?"

"No, he's coming to you." Fuck. He couldn't decided what was worse. Having an intruder, or leaving the house. 

"I don't want him in here, Miles. Tell him. Tell him I don't want him here." His voice grew rougher. " _Tell him._ "

"You know I can't do that. I'm sorry. But this is for you." Waylon's world stopped around him. The sounds outside of his door stopped. The darkness was closing in on him and he felt his mind swimming, he was getting dizzy. He pressed his face into the pillow, wiping away his panicked tears from before to make way for new ones to spring up before he lifted his head again.

"There's no way. There is no fucking way that I'm going to allow some _stranger_ to trespass my home." Waylon seethed. "My haven. My fucking haven, Miles. I don't give a shit who he is or how much you payed him to carry his ass over here. I don't want this. I don't _need_ help." His voice felt as if it'd give out any second. The line went silent, with the sound of Miles cracking his knuckles again coming through. 

"His name is Eros Mallows. I've met him. He's a sweet guy." Miles continued. His voice softened, shook just a little. "He's coming to you today, and I'll be there with you. I think you'll really like him, Way. I really do. He reminds me of Lisa." 

Waylon yanked the cellphone away from his ear and with every last bit of strength he had left, he hurled the phone across the room. It collided with the opposite wall with a definite crack and clattered to the floor. He'd always wanted to do that. The only reason why he didn't was because of Miles. But now he wouldn't be needing it anymore. 

He wondered how close they were to his home. With every second that passed, his heart thumped louder. Even when he curled up in his blankets, like where he was supposed to be in the first place. His mind wandered back to him waking in the bathtub. How had he missed someone getting inside...? Someone moving him, someone _touching_ him. He wanted his mind to end on the answer. He knew who it was. But he didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to face it. He couldn't face it. 

The house turned abnormally quiet. Like it knew someone was coming. He stayed still along with it.

When they did come, Waylon sat up. Three sharp raps followed by the doorbell. 

A muffled voice seeped through the walls, he could make out what it said "Waylon?" He didn't move. Like with the cellphone, maybe if he didn't respond, they'd go away. "I know you can hear me, Way." Miles said, louder. "I'm here with Dr. Mallows. He's excited to see you. You know we just wanna help you." He didn't need help. He was fine helping himself. Miles knocked again. "Way? Please. At least give it a chance. For me if not for yourself." After that shit he'd said to him, he didn't want to do it for either of them. She was still a thorn in his heart, his Lisa. When he did think her and his boys, it felt like his reality would close in on itself with him in the middle. It forced him to come back. He hated it. 

After a minute or so ticked by, he slunk out of the bed and to the front door to check if they'd gone away. Through the peephole, he could see Miles still there, and the unfamiliar face. 

"Go _away_ , Miles." He perked up as he heard Waylon's voice. "And take your therapist with you."

"Don't you hate always feeling the way that you do? Doesn't it hurt? Isn't it painful?" He turned away from the peephole. "I know you're hurting, Way. You don't have to hurt alone. I want you to feel better. I want you to be happy. We're in this together. We always have been, from the very start." Waylon felt his brow knit, his lips press together. He leant against the door, his heart steady. There was hurt deep inside of him. He knew it. 

"What if it doesn't work...?"

"Then we'll try something else. Me and you." Waylon thumped his head against the door. With a deep sigh, he undid every lock and latch and tentatively twisted the door knob. He shut his eyes and turned away from the light as he opened the door. Their footsteps creaked into the house and he quickly closed the door, re-locking everything. 

"It's quite dark in here." A soothing voice, perfectly deep and inviting, soft and gentle, vibrating with warmth.

"I know..." He made his way into the living room and reluctantly turned on one of the lamps. The light filled half of the room, leaving dark corners and shadows, but spilled into the hallway leading to the front door. Miles appeared first, a proud smile on his face as he held Waylon's gaze. Eros followed. He was shorter than the both of them, and he smiled sweetly when he saw Waylon. 

"My name is Eros Mallows, but you can just call me Eros. I'm here to help you. It's good to finally see you." Eros' voice crawled up Waylon's spine. He liked it, he didn't like it. All he managed was a nod. It was hard enough, having him in here. Now he had to talk to him. "Why don't we all have a seat, hm?" Eros made himself comfortable on the loveseat beside the lamp and Miles sat beside him. Waylon stared at them both for a moment before slowly sitting across from them on the couch. In the clear light, he could better see him. He was impossibly blonde, from his wavy hair tumbling over his shoulders, to his lashes, holding crystal blue irises. His skin was fair, peppered with freckles, his smile reaching his eyes in a way that Waylon was too familiar with. It was sort of like the way Blaire smiled at him when they first met. "Now, Waylon... Miles has already told me so much about you." He sat down a satchel at his feet and crossed one leg over the other. "But I want to hear it from you. What's happening around here?" Eros waved to the house around them and tipped his head expectantly. 

"Uh..." Waylon breathed out, his gaze darting from between them and the lamp. "I-I don't know." 

"No? Why do you decide to stay here?" He asked gently, wasting no time in getting to the point. 

"It's... safe here." 

"Safe from what?" 

"Everything." Waylon said incredulously, narrowing his eyes. "Nothing's been able to hurt me since I've been here." Even to himself, he sounded uncertain. 

"And what about the light?"

"It's... It's the same thing. It's safer in the dark. I can't see things in the dark." Miles looked away when he'd said that and began fumbling with his sleeves. Waylon noticed that Eros wasn't writing anything down. Did that only happen in movies? 

"So you see things. Things that aren't there?" Waylon sucked in a breath. His eyes wandered around in the dark patches the light couldn't reach. 

"I said, I can't see things in the dark." Eros nodded with his eyes trailing up and down Waylon. He didn't like the way he looked at him, like he was analyzing him, mentally taking him apart. 

"What are the things that you see, Waylon?" He shifted in his seat, his heart beginning to pick up its pace.

"I have nightmares." He redirected. He didn't want to talk about that. He didn't want to talk about any of this. "All the time. About... people. And weird things." He attempted to answer before Eros could ask him. "I had a dream that a bright light was trying to speak to me. And then I woke up in the bathtub." 

"Ah... You sleepwalk."

" _No._ I don't sleepwalk. I've never sleptwalked in my entire life." His defensive tone rolled right off of Eros' back despite Miles visibly going tense beside him. 

"And what about the people you dream about?" One, two. Footsteps. Waylon looked over with his eyes into the other darkend hallway. The glowing green eyes. Still. Watching him. Eros and Miles followed his gaze. "What about the people, Waylon?" He could make out the face where the eyes were. The toothy smile. He tore his eyes away and directed them to the lamp. 

"I have to turn it off."

"Waylon--" Eros didn't try to physically stop him when he went for the lamp, and when the room was washed in black again, the glowing eyes had vanished. A sigh whispered in the air. Miles. 

"We have alot of work to do." Eros murmured. 

"I just... I can't... I can't." 

"Yes you can, Waylon. Maybe not right now, but eventually. We're going to get you out of here." 

"I want to stay _here._ "

"I know you do." Someone was shuffling around. For a moment, Waylon panicked. Was it the intruder...? And then, a beam of light. Eros directed the flashlight to his own face. "Let's start with this. Here," He held it out to Waylon. "I want you to use this everyday. It'll always be in your hands, you can control it, turn it on and off whenever you want. How's that sound?" He took the flashlight and pointed it to the two on the loveseat. Miles had his face in his hand and Eros still had that smile on his pink lips. 

"It's... Its okay, I guess." Eros' smile somehow changed into a more pleased one. His eyes gleamed with something... different. 

"Perfect. Well, Waylon. I don't want to overstay. I know that you already don't want me here. But I'll stop by tomorrow, just me and you." Eros stood and reached into his satchel to pull out a little card. "Here. In case you'd like to call me." 

"Uh, about that..." Waylon thought back to him chucking his cellphone. When Eros looked curious, he only shook his head. "Nothing. I'll, uh... Yeah." He took the card, knowing that he would be doing no such thing. At least, not so easily. As Eros prepared to leave, Miles still hadn't moved from his position, his face still held behind his hand. Waylon shined the cool light on him. "Miles?" He split his fingers apart to look at him. "I'm... sorry." Miles rubbed his face with a deep sigh. Eros glanced between the two. It was an pology for everything. For how he'd been treating him. In the moment, all he wanted was for Miles to leave, to stop trying to tak away what comfort he had managed to get since he'd escaped Mount Massive.

"It's okay. It'll be okay." Waylon wanted to believe him. He really did.

**Author's Note:**

> So here's my next stab at an Outlast fic. I love Outlast so much, and Eddie and Waylon's dynamic has always interested me, so I really want this time to be when I officially contribute to the fandom, even though it's old, and I don't think many people are still invested in it. But! I'm going to write this anyway! I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter, and what is next to come!
> 
> :)


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